


Dare

by emmsi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Humor, One Shot, POV Sansa Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 11:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15884778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmsi/pseuds/emmsi
Summary: Sansa plays truth or dare





	Dare

**Dare**

Sansa tried to calm her breathing. _One and a two and a three, in. One and a two and a three, out._ But it was an impossible task when she was walking towards certain death.

Oh gods, _why_ had she chosen dare? Yes, listening about the strangest place that Ygritte had ever peed (up a tree at three in the morning, being chased by a flock of angry sheep) had been quite vulgar, and Sansa definitely did _not_ want to talk about her own private functions, but surely it’d be better than _this_?

She heard a loud ‘oooh’ from Margaery behind her, above the clinking of glass and the low crooning of a jazz number she didn’t recognise that Bar Westeros always seemed to play in the evenings. ‘Ahhhh,’ came an excited squeak from Jeyne, ‘it’s him!’

Her friends must have worked out the target of her dare by now. Past the bar where two older gentlemen sat, past a table of northern boys, was the unmistakeable figure of Sandor Clegane. Sansa twisted out of the way as Theon’s arm shot out, most likely to slap her on the behind.

‘Low five!’ said Theon, pretending that it was she who’d missed the cue.

She glared at him and walked on. Her target sat at a table by himself, working his way through a tiny glass of spirit, nearly treacle-brown, on ice, different in every way from the vodka and lemonade topped with fresh mint that she’d been sipping at all evening.

He looked up when she was steps away. His steel-grey eyes took a moment to focus on her, and for a moment, Sansa thought he looked almost glad to see her.

‘Sorry,’ she blurted out as she came to a stop in front of him.

‘Whatever for, little bird?’

‘I… should have brought you something,’ she said. A packet of crisps. Another drink. Anything, really, that’d not turn that look of almost-gladness into disappointment. But all she had with her was, well, her.  She almost turned and legged it back to her own table, where a lemon muffin she’d picked up from the market sat in her bag, an unhealthy breakfast choice for tomorrow – she could offer that to him, couldn’t she? – but she stared straight into the frowning faces of Margaery and Ygritte, and Jeyne gestured wildly for her to… get on with it.

When she turned back to Sandor Clegane, the only thing that was left in his eyes was an anger that made her flinch.

‘Why in the seven buggering hells are you here, girl?’

Oh gods. This was precisely why she was here.

‘I just…’ she wasn’t sure how to explain it tactfully.

‘Out with it!’ he rasped, knocking back the rest of his drink. ‘You’d never come speak to an old dog if you can help it.’

‘That’s not true!’ she said with a gasp. It wasn’t! She spoke to him all the time. There was the time when she’d nearly fallen over and he’d steadied her, spoken to her, and she’d… replied, surely? Then there was the time when she’d still been fawning over Joff’s good looks, but Joff had left her stranded and Sandor had taken her home, talking all the while, telling her about his scars, and she’d… definitely spoken too. Most recently, he’d pulled her to safety when the peaceful protest had taken a violent turn. She’d felt so warm and safe in his arms, though the way he’d punched another man in the face was frightening, and she’d… not worked up the courage to thank him.

‘I…’ Oh gods… Did she really never seek him out? Was this why it was so hard to actually start a conversation with him? She should start by thanking him for saving her, but Margaery was telling her to hurry up, and the vodka and lemonades she’d had kept making the words tumbled out of her grasp. ‘I… I’m playing truth or dare with the girls,’ she said. The truth had a habit of slipping out when he was around; he’d always called her a bad liar. ‘Can I… can I kiss you,’ she said, ‘please?’

He barked a mirthless laugh and picked up his glass again, only to find it empty. ‘Dared you to kiss the ugliest cunt in this place, did they?’

‘No!’ It was almost as if she’d been slapped herself, and thanks to Joff, she knew what that felt like. True, he’d not be called handsome, but there was something captivating about the fierce set of his jaws. ‘Don’t say that! The dare was to kiss the most terrifying person in the bar, and you like to frighten people.’

She looked him in the eyes now, even though the anger in them used to frighten her – still did, at times – and waited for an answer. But he did not speak.

She cleared her throat. ‘So… the kiss?’

‘You think I’m the most terrifying person in this bar, girl?’

‘Well–’

‘Look over there,’ he rasped, jabbing a finger at the back of Ramsay Bolton. ‘That’s a man who runs an underground dog fighting ring. Gets a kick out of blood sports. Sick cunt.’ She knew about him, of course. His father was just as creepy. ‘And over there,’ he carried on, pointing towards a small, bearded man laughing along with a table full of scantily clad girls, ‘is Littlefinger. Thrives on chaos. Stabbed countless people in the back.’ She knew about him too. He was a friend of her mother’s who sent the worst kind of shivers down her spine. ‘Look over there.’ It was the bar this time, and the old men she’d walked past. ‘Tywin Lannister. Take a good long look. That’s a man you should fear. Never forget that.’

‘Oh,’ she said. He was right. She’d heard plenty about Joff’s grandfather. Things that’d make Joff seem like the ideal boyfriend once again, and… Oh. The girls where no longer hovering behind her. They must have given up, because she’d taken too long; now Margaery was performing some sort of a lap dance at the other end of the bar, most likely as a result of the next dare.

She hung her head and blinked away her… her disappointment?

‘Wait,’ he caught her on the wrist, not ungently. ‘Where are you going, little bird?’

‘I… I guess you’re right,’ she said. ‘Tywin Lannister is the most frightening person in the bar. I don’t really want to kiss him, but… a dare is a dare.’

Something akin to panic replaced the anger in his eyes, and he placed the other hand on her shoulder, sending a wave of warmth through her body. She leaned into his touch.

‘Do you _want_ to kiss an old scarred dog?’ he rasped.

His face was closer now, as if he was searching for something in her eyes. She could smell the whiskey and the leather and the musk, and… and…

‘If you don’t mind,’ she said.

His scars were under her fingertips, and his breath became one with hers. She raked through his hair, clung onto his back, until the only thing that frightened her in this world was that they’d go back to how they were once the kiss was over.

She wouldn’t let it. And that was the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Silly one shot where it doesn’t take more than 80,000 words to get to a kiss. Just a small offering to those who are ploughing through Harrenhal, in particular. I love you all!


End file.
